


Currents

by red2007



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Post-Movie: The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red2007/pseuds/red2007
Summary: "He’d encompassed her without intention. He was the leader she disappeared behind and though he’d claimed it first, he was the half that made her whole."
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61
Collections: X-Files Smut Fanfic Exchange (2020)





	Currents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greekowl87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekowl87/gifts).



> My prompt for the 2020 Smut Exchange came from Kelly (greekowl87) who asked for angst and UST to RST with hurt/comfort. I hope I was able to deliver. 
> 
> Thanks to Nicole (OnlyTheInevitable) & Co for hosting yet another anticipated exchange. And also to Vicky (frangipanidownunder) whose workshop gave me a jumping off point and some of the tools for this story.

Lapping waves, slow, steady, reliable. Pounding out a tattoo on the rocks below their patio. Salt—sweat and ocean. Birds of various Caribbean descent circle above. Casting shadows—split seconds of cool—relief from the sweltering, unrelenting sun. The chorus in her head is filled with tumult, singing in opposition to the pseudo-freedom surrounding her. Like the rush and chaos of the waves meeting granite. She pictures diving into their depths, submerged on all sides by the glacial expected merciless swell—sinking down deep and allowing herself to be buried below the swirling, vacuous…

“Cleansing…isn’t it?” The draw of the purging riotous waves loses its power as she turns toward where he lounges. Plasters on a smile, the creases at the edges of her mouth a hair off. The line of her forehead sunken just a touch too much. He misses it for the large tinted glasses reflecting the flawless shoreline. “This is just what we needed.”

His palm, soothing along a sun kissed cheek, offers respite for the torrent coursing through her. Magnetism. She sighs, leaning into the pull. When she was 8 her parents had given her a magnet set, perfectly identical quarter inch cylinders in various colors. They always found their way to each other, perfectly fit—so flush and uniform they disappeared behind the leader. She’d spent hours watching them find each other, join together.

The gravity well that is Fox Mulder had been pulling at her for decades. They’d never orbited, were just drawn into the other, knowing they’d never been close enough. He’d been deeper inside her in every way than any living being; pressed in on all sides—mind, body, and soul. Shared space, shared thoughts, shared breath. He’d encompassed her without intention. He was the leader she disappeared behind and though he’d claimed it first, he was the half that made her whole.

Like a favorite pair of shoes or his old worn academy shirt—they were comfortable and they defaulted here. Surrendering to emotionally charged chemical forces; the way the callous on his trigger finger alighted the deadened nerve endings on a life-saving scar. How her body just moves with him at the slightest pressure on her hip, follows without question. As if God measured and manufactured them, wove them solely for the other and faith in that knowledge would somehow save them both.

His rough and worn thumb slopes along the bevel of her lip, parting as if by sensor. By chemical reaction. By rote. Neurons fire, muscle memory; her tongue moistening the tip as it hooks inside her lip. She tastes his familiar salty bitterness, inhaling the energy infusing the air around them. The waves crash, relentless, and her higher functioning brain traitorously reminds her that this has never been a solution. It’s been a fix.

He’s leaned over, his other hand gripping her hip, leading—pulling and she’s already following. Her bottom lip is surrounded by his supple ones; suction and slickness while his hands untie the wrap around her waist. The silken fabric billows down her legs and she forgets the long hours she’s been working and why.

Her fingers meet his abs like speed bumps on the way from his chest down, taut and trim and she works under the red shorts. With a soft plop they encircle his feet and gone are his daily preoccupations with this beast or that. His thumbs along her bikini top, freeing her breasts over the cups. His lips, god those lips, have found a pebbly nipple and she hums in appreciation for _this_ preoccupation. The heat and hardness of him in counterpoint to the soft moistness of her, pushing her down while he laves, her last piece of clothing landing among the debris along the way.

Her hand grips his length, his fingers probe her bud, then enter her in long strokes setting a rhythm as familiar as the mole on his face or the oft hidden mark on hers. The room is filled with the ocean, and wanton, breath-caught sighs when his tongue invades her slit, his finger trailing backward. Bed sheets gather between fisted fingers, her lower half ascending under his hands and attention.

She’s peaking, her eyes jammed shut, each nerve seizing, releasing, repeating as he pulls away, kissing her inner thigh to her knee, writing his devotion on her skin with her own pleasure.

She pulls and he obeys, fingers laced above them, tongues gliding together, breast crushed to breast and his hot cock poised. Her legs wrapped around his give a simple flex and he enters with no preamble. Luxurious strokes, they move together as they always have. An eyebrow here, a nod—taps on the hip and an eye roll, it’s their language and they converse until he’s spent and her walls cease pulling him in.

She turns her head toward his, kisses his forehead, tastes the beads she finds there and something about the musk and the skin feels like coming home even as he softens and she’s left empty.

She’s knows if she ever finds the nerve to leave he’ll stop her with words. Complex and contrived arguments, nostalgic pleas, and long repeated promises. His words will grip her heart, feed her guilt. His words will halt her.

He’ll win her with _this_.

With desperate, separation fearing sex up against the door jamb of their living room, splinters from the uneven wood leaving a pattern of pain on her back. Bitter and frantic, face down on their wooden table buried to the hilt behind her; seeing her bags propped against the door while she comes around him.

It will always be this all-encompassing, she knows. She doubts she’ll ever deny him.

They stay like this until sleep claims them. Slightly off of her, limbs entwined. A welcome half-weight for a storied half-life. Overbearing and eclipsing her, but smoothing her edges and filling her cracks.

Sex is their collective deep intake of breath, it slows the inevitable meltdown, but they both know they can’t stop the apocalypse.

They shift together at midnight, eyes slowly opening—hunger and lust in equal measure while their mutual release has dried between them.

He kisses her lazily, drawing himself up and toward the bathroom. A wink and a nod toward the shower and she agrees with a silent smile. She watches the rhythmic flexion of his body as he walks away and sighs.

They’ll work themselves to near famished in the shower, his length in her mouth, her back pressed into the tile, his forearms bracing her legs as he pours himself into her empty womb.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Until they leave this haven for reality and no bonding or magnetism can erase or repair the damage.

She stands, stretching as she walks to the open patio door. There’s a slight breeze and it sends a chill she can’t process through her body. The ocean is black, vast—the beauty of the white capped waves belies their violence. She’s already submerged on all sides, doesn’t know who she is anymore—can’t find footing or direction.

She glances at the cracked open bathroom door as the shower sounds compete with the symphonic sea. She turns away, toward the beckoning warmth and him, hoping they’ll be able to break through to the surface together.

He’s always been her compass.


End file.
